\^^ 


THE  POETS'  ENCHIRIDION 

ADDRESS  TO  UVEDALE  PRICE 

AN  INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP 

CATARINA  TO  CAMOENS 


THE 
POETS'  ENCHIRIDION 

A   HITHERTO   UNPUBLISHED   POEM 
WITH    AN    INEDITED 

ADDRESS  TO  UVEDALE   PRICE 

ON   HIS    EIGHTIETH    BIRTHDAY 
AN    EARLY 

INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP 

AND  A  PRELIMINARY  DRAFT  OF 
THE  RENOWNED  POEM 

CATARINA  TO   CAMOENS 

BY 

ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BARRETT 

(  AFTERWARDS  MRS.   BROWNING ) 


PRINTED  EXCLUSIVELY   FOR   MEMBERS   OF 

THE  BIBLIOPHILE    SOCIETY 

BOSTON,   MASSACHUSETTS 

MCMXIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1914.  BY 
THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETY 


NOTE 

These  characteristic  and  remarkably  interest- 
ing poems  are  presented  in  this  manner  to  afford 
the  members  of  The  Bibhophile  Society  a  fore- 
taste of  the  unusual  literary  treat  that  awaits 
them  in  the  two  larger  volumes  of  unpublished 
Browning  MSS.  now  in  course  of  preparation. 

The  distinguished  English  editor,  who  will  have 
full  editorial  charge  of  the  work,  writes:  — 

"  'The  Poets'  Enchiridion'  is  the  author's  own 
title.  The  Uvedale  Price  Address  is  connected 
with  the  genesis  of  the  'Enchiridion.'  The  sweet 
little  'Invocation'  was  written  in  or  before  her 
early  teens;  and  the  'Catarina  to  Camoens'  is  a 
lovely  sketch  of  the  poet's  mature  period.  When 
these  pieces  are  absorbed  into  the  larger  work 
(volume  II)  there  will  be  some  very  interesting 
things  to  tell  about  them. 

"As  to  the  poet's  'Autobiography,'  I  hope  you 
will  be  able  to  possess  your  soul  in  patience  just 
a  little  longer." 

Meantime  it  will  suffice  to  state  that  the  MSS. 
were  obtained  when  the  executors  of  the  poet's 

5 


664 


son  decided  to  disperse  them  publicly.  They  are 
samples  of  a  large  number  —  of  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  unpublished  pieces  —  purchased 
by  Mr.  Henry  H.  Harper,  and  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  Society  to  print  for  the  members. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  important  literary  "finds" 
of  modern  times. 


6 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING: 
NEW   DATA 


v/ 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING: 
NEW   DATA 

A  CENTENNIAL  ADDRESS  TO  THE  BIBLIOPHILE 
SOCIETY    SPOKEN   ACROSS   THE   ATLANTIC    BY 

H.  BUXTON  FORMAN 

Just  a  century  ago  a  tiny,  frail  maiden  of  eight 
years,  living  with  her  parents  and  younger  brothers 
and  sisters  in  a  beautiful  and  luxurious  home  at 
Hope  End  in  the  county  of  Hereford,  came  to  the 
serious  conviction  that  she  was  a  poet.  Her  father 
and  mother,  far  from  discountenancing  such  a 
belief  in  their  eldest-born,  rather  fostered  it  in  the 
little  Elizabeth,  Beth,  or  Ba,  as  she  is  variously 
styled  in  the  archives  of  her  now  illustrious  life. 
From  early  infancy  Elizabeth  Barrett  Moulton 
Barrett,  to  give  her  for  once  her  full  baptismal 
name,  had  been  accustomed  to  shape  her  budding 
thoughts  in  verse  and  in  due  course  to  set  them 
down  on  paper.  In  her  sixth  year,  on  beholding 
some  carefully  indited  lines  of  hers  on  Virtue,  her 
father  addressed  to  her  a  letter  containing  a  ten 
shilling  note,  and  placed  on  it  the  playful  super- 
scription, "To  the  Poet  Laureate  of  Hope  End;" 

9 


and  when,  at  the  age  of  eight,  in  the  year  1814, 
little  Ba  commandeered  a  quarto  volume  of  blank 
paper,  to  be  the  receptacle  of  transcripts  of  her 
various  compositions,  there  was  no  case  for  sur- 
prise or  discouragement  of  any  sort. 

Whether  the  transcripts  were  to  be  made  from 
time  to  time  by  the  little  authoress  herself  or  by 
her  fond  but  by  no  means  injudicious  mother, 
busied  with  the  duties  of  maternity  (for  she  bore 
her  husband  eleven  children  beside  Ba)  is  a  ques- 
tion not  yet  positively  settled;  nor  is  it  a  very 
important  one.  It  is  certain  that  at  a  very  early 
age  the  child  wrote  a  surprisingly  mature  ladylike 
hand,  which  altered  from  time  to  time;  and  if  she 
was  the  transcriber  of  1814,  of  whose  verse  and 
prose  the  copy-book  was  destined  to  contain  so 
considerable  a  mass,  her  hand  must  have  degener- 
ated in  tidiness  as  it  developed  in  character.  That 
is  by  no  means  unlikely;  for,  as  Browning  records 
in  the  1887  edition  of  her  works,  she  was  practi- 
cally self-educated,  although  both  a  Governess  and 
a  Tutor  took  part  in  her  tuition  at  Hope  End. 

What  is  certain  is  that  this  quarto  commence- 
ment of  recorded  authorship  began  with  a  carefully 
penned  heading  in  ornamental  characters  which 
look  more  Uke  the  best  work  of  an  infant  prodigy 
than  the  not  very  strong  delineation  of  a  matron. 
The  heading  is  formed  of  minutely  shaded  letters 
and  reads  thus  — 

10 


POEMS 

by 

Elizabeth  B.  Barrett 

The  body  of  the  writing  shows  a  somewhat  simi- 
lar conception  of  the  calligraphic  art  to  that  shown 
by  writing  of  a  slightly  later  date  unquestionably 
hers;  and,  while  it  looks  at  least  as  mature  in 
some  respects,  perhaps  more  mature,  has,  per  con- 
tra, one  or  two  rather  childish  characteristics  in  it: 
hence  it  remains  to  settle  by  extraneous  minute 
investigation  whose  hand  it  positively  is.  But  one 
thing  is  beyond  all  possible  question,  that  the  com- 
positions are  those  of  Elizabeth  herself,  whether 
she  or  her  mother  wrote  these  copies  out  fairly  from 
the  child's  own  written  copies  —  as  for  instance 
those  bestowed  on  the  various  members  of  the 
family  at  Hope  End  for  whom  they  were  composed. 
That  quarto  collection  of  transcripts  was  in  fact  a 
sort  of  limited  act  of  publication;  and  it  is  at  the 
first  centenary  of  that  act  that  we  have  now 
arrived,  —  sixty-eight  years  after  the  marriage  of 
the  still  frail  little  lady,  but  by  then  recognized 
great  poet,  to  Robert  Browning,  and  fifty-three 
years  after  her  death  and  burial  at  Florence. 

The  Bibliophile  Society  with  its  sumptuous 
issues  of  fine  contributions  to  English  literature  is  a 
characteristic  growth  of  that  vast  prosperity  and 

11 


strong  intellectual  and  political  progress  which  the 
democratic  child  of  Hope  End  and  the  great 
woman  who  wrote  "Aurora  Leigh"  and  "Casa 
Guidi  Windows"  was  as  forward  to  recognize  and 
appreciate  as  the  great  nation  akin  to  her  own  was 
to  receive  into  its  bosom  the  children  of  her  spirit; 
and  it  is  a  fitting  revenge  of  time  that  the  Society 
located  west  of  the  Atlantic  is  to  give  these  early 
works  and  others  of  still  greater  interest  to  the 
light  of  day. 

It  is  not  to  be  credited  that  either  she  or  her 
husband  had  any  dread  of  the  daylight  for  any 
records  they  might  leave  behind  them.  They  had 
ample  opportunity  for  putting  out  of  existence  any 
of  the  vast  accumulations  of  drafts  and  records 
and  unpublished  works  and  letters  to  them  and 
from  them;  and  there  is  evidence  of  Browning 
having  gone  out  of  his  way  to  gather  in  much  of 
this  material  after  his  wife's  death,  and  gone  over 
it  in  some  measure  before  he  too  passed  to  his 
place,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  left  his  son 
as  custodian  of  the  archives.  That  son  dying  in 
his  turn  and  somewhat  before  his  time,  his  execu- 
tors have  seen  fit  to  scatter  over  the  face  of  the 
earth  this  enormous  aggregation  of  documents; 
and  The  Bibliophile  Society  has  not  been  back- 
ward in  the  endeavour  to  secure  what  it  could  for 
issue  among  its  members. 

It  is  an  old  tradition  of  the  United  States  of 

12 


America  to  be  more  "up  to  date"  than  England 
in  respect  of  the  poetry  and  personality  of  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  Browning.  Indeed  long  before  she 
had  consented  to  take  that  last  august  name,  and 
was  about  to  allow  her  own  full  maiden-name  to 
appear  for  the  first  time  on  the  title-page  of  an 
important  collection  of  poems,  it  was  at  New  York 
that  that  collection  secured  priority  of  appearance. 
It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  persuade  The  Biblio- 
phile Society  that  the  two  volumes  called  "A 
Drama  of  Exile  and  other  Poems"  (New  York, 
1845)  did  not  appear  before  the  two  volumes  called 
simply  "Poems"  (London,  1844);  for  the  Ameri- 
can book,  identical  in  substance  with  the  English 
book,  only  differs  from  it  in  typography,  in  a 
matter  of  trade  custom,  and  in  the  Preface.  The 
body  of  the  London  Preface  is  practically  identical 
with  that  of  New  York,  varying  only  in  a  few 
phrases.  But  there  is  a  preliminary  paragraph  in 
the  New  York  Preface  almost  unknown  even  to 
bibliographers  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic,  which 
leaves  no  doubt  whatever  on  the  question  of  prior- 
ity. The  paragraph  should  be  grateful  to  the 
hearts  of  Americans  at  this  day  when  the  world 
acclaims  Mrs.  Browning  as  the  greatest  of  women- 
poets, —  some  say  except  Sappho;  but  who  can 
really,  with  the  scanty  knowledge  we  have  of  her, 
truly  fix  Sappho's  place?  At  any  rate  let  this 
glorious  Englishwoman's  utterance  stand  on  record 

13 


in  one  of  The  Bibliophile  Society's  issues  in  this 
centennial  Year  of  Grace:  — 

"My  love  and  admiration  have  belonged  to  the 
great  American  people,  as  long  as  I  have  felt  proud 
of  being  an  Englishwoman,  and  almost  as  long  as 
I  have  loved  poetry  itself.  But  it  is  only  of  late 
that  I  have  been  admitted  to  the  privilege  of  per- 
sonal gratitude  to  Americans,  and  only  to-day 
that  I  am  encouraged  to  offer  to  their  hands  an 
American  edition  of  a  new  collection  of  my  poems, 
about  to  be  published  in  my  own  country.  This 
edition  precedes  the  English  one  by  a  step,  —  a 
step  eagerly  taken,  and  with  a  spring  in  it  of  pleas- 
ure and  pride  suspended,  however,  for  a  moment, 
that,  by  a  cordial  figure  I  may  kiss  the  soil  of 
America,  and  address  my  thanks  to  those  sons  of 
the  soil,  who,  if  strangers  and  foreigners,  are  yet 
kinsmen  and  friends,  and  who,  if  never  seen,  nor 
perhaps  to  be  seen  by  eyes  of  mine,  have  already 
caused  them  to  glisten  by  words  of  kindness  and 
courtesy." 

Again,  when  Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett  had  been 
led  to  the  Altar  by  Robert  Browning,  and  husband 
and  wife  each  published  in  1850  a  collection  of 
Poems  in  two  volumes,  the  States  really  took 
more  seriously  than  the  mother  country  did  the 

14 


poetess's  own  denunciation  of  her  early  version 
of  the  Prometheus  Bound  of  ^Eschylus,  and  her 
propitiatory  offering  of  an  entirely  new  and 
vigorous  translation.  The  States  naturally  ab- 
sorbed more  eagerly  than  England  did  the  fervid 
and  noble  democracy  and  humanitarianism  of 
"Casa  Guidi  Windows,"  and  the  advanced  poli- 
tics of  "Poems  before  Congress,"  published  as 
separate  volumes  in  1851  and  1860.  Accord- 
ingly we  find  New  York  producing  in  the 
earlier  of  those  two  years  a  separate  volume  en- 
titled "Prometheus  Bound  and  other  Poems;  in- 
cluding Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  Casa  Guidi 
Windows,  &c.,"  and  naming  the  1860  booklet  after 
its  first  poem,  —  "Napoleon  III  in  Italy."  As  to 
"Aurora  Leigh"  and  the  "Sonnets  from  the  Por- 
tuguese," it  is  next  to  impossible  to  gauge  the  vivid, 
the  deep,  the  instantaneous  impression  created 
in  the  various  regions  of  the  English-speaking 
world  by  the  radiant  universality  of  that  spacious 
narrative  poem  and  the  exquisite  and  unique 
tenderness  and  perfection  of  those  Sonnets,  which 
were,  sub  rosa,  her  own  love-sonnets  to  Browning. 
But  when  the  beautiful  spirit  which  created  by 
years  of  residence  a  sacred  atmosphere  in  and  about 
Casa  Guidi  had  taken  up  her  freedom  from  suffer- 
ing, and  lay  at  rest  in  the  English  Burial  Ground 
at  Florence,  the  States  surpassed  in  mournful  re- 
grets even  the  respectful  sorrow  of  Mrs.  Browning's 

15 


own  country.  Here  again,  bibliography  is  a  truly 
typical  hand-maid  to  literary  appreciation;  for  it  is 
to  be  observed  that  while  the  "Last  Poems"  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  gathered  up  and 
edited  by  her  husband,  were  published  in  England 
in  1862  with  a  few  lines  written  by  him,  the  Ameri- 
can edition  issued  simultaneously  with  the  English, 
contained  a  different  few  lines  in  which  Browning 
set  forth  that  the  right  of  publishing  the  book  in 
the  United  States  had  been  "liberally  purchased 
by  Mr.  James  Miller,"  and  that  it  was  hoped  there 
would  be  "  no  interference  with  the  same."  Miller's 
book  was  one  of  the  "blue  and  gold"  pocket  vol- 
umes so  popular  in  the  third  quarter  of  last  century. 
Like  the  English  book  it  was  called  simply  "Last 
Poems  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning;"  but  it  was 
graced  with  a  "Memorial"  by  Theodore  Tilton, not 
only  sympathetic  and  charming  as  an  essay,  but, 
being  quasi-biographical,  earlier  by  a  quarter  of  a 
century  or  more  than  any  attempt  in  England  to 
publish  a  Life  of  Mrs.  Browning.  On  the  other 
hand  it  is  to  be  recorded  with  regret  that  Miller 
omitted  Browning's  beautiful  and  simple  words 
of  dedication  to  the  fair  city  that  had  given 
hospitable  and  loving  shelter  to  him  and  his  wife 
for  many  years  and  appreciated  their  work  for 
Italy:  — 


16 


TO    "grateful   FLORENCE," 

TO   THE    MUNICIPALITY,    HER    REPRESENTATIVE, 

AND   TO    TOMMASEO,    ITS    SPOKESMAN, 

MOST   GRATEFULLY. 

Browning's  long  survival  of  his  wife  could  not 
but  restrain  English  endeavour  to  celebrate  her  in 
biographical  memoirs.  To  the  end  of  his  life  he 
remained  passionately  in  love  with  her  and  too 
reverently  so  as  to  let  the  world  be  at  once  flooded 
with  authoritative  documents;  but  that  the  masses 
of  such  documents  controlled  by  him  were  scrupu- 
lously guarded  from  perishing  is  certain;  and  he 
doubtless  contemplated  with  equanimity  the  even- 
tual upheaval  that  would  make  public  just  as  much 
about  his  wife's  wonderful  and  flawless  life,  his  own 
relations  with  her,  and  all  else  concerning  the 
Brownings,  as  the  world  might  find  a  use  for. 
While  these  sacred  archives  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  only  son  of  the  two  poets,  he  by  no  means 
denied  access  to  them;  and  it  was  perhaps  by 
reason  of  uncontrollable  circumstances  that  his 
executors  were  left  to  deal  with  the  formidable  col- 
lection distributed  under  the  hammer  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1913.  It  consisted  of  vastly  more  than  Sir 
Frederick  Kenyon  drew  upon  for  his  invaluable 
selection  from  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning's  Letters 
published  in  two  thick  volumes  in  1897;  nor  was 
the  material  of  high  interest  by  any  means  ex- 

17 


hausted  when  he  followed  those  volumes  up  in  1899 
with  two  more  consisting  of  the  letters  exchanged 
between  the  alTianced  poets  during  the  year  pre- 
ceding their  marriage. 

The  Bibliophile  Society  will  doubtless  learn  with 
eager  anticipation  that  those  youthful  efforts  in 
the  quarto  copy-book  with  others  obtained  by  the 
Society  afford  a  veritable  constructive  chronicle 
of  the  child-poet's  early  life  at  Hope  End  and  else- 
where. There  are  about  ninety  of  these  composi- 
tions, the  acquisition  of  which  was  the  more 
fortunate  from  the  circumstance,  lamented  by  Sir 
F.  Kenyon  in  his  edition  of  Mrs.  Browning's  Let- 
ters, that  there  is  little  known  of  those  early  years 
beyond  what  in  1843  the  poetess  imparted  to  R.  H. 
Home  in  a  biographical  letter  which  he  ultimately 
published.  The  great  majority  of  the  composi- 
tions is  in  verse;  but  a  good  deal  of  prose  is  scat- 
tered among  the  poems;  and  it  is  from  the  poems 
that  we  learn  most  about  the  Hope  End  life  and 
circle. 

Fortunate  as  that  acquisition  was,  it  is  surpassed 
in  actual  importance  by  the  recovery  of  a  most  re- 
markable record  of  the  life  of  Elizabeth  Barrett 
written  by  herself  on  her  entry  into  her  fifteenth 
year.  That  record  Browning  certainly  knew,  for 
it  was  found  wrapped  in  paper  and  marked  by  him 
with  the  words  "Her  own  life  and  character 
to  her  15th  Year."     The  fourteen-year-old  girl's 

18 


"Glimpses  into  My  Own  Life  and  Literary  Char- 
acter" will  figure,  importantly,  in  the  first  volume 
of  her  posthumous  writings  which,  as  I  understand, 
the  Council  hopes  to  issue  this  year.  How  well 
the  "Glimpses"  and  the  poems  of  the  copy-book 
fit  in  with  each  other  may  well  be  shown  by  a  few 
examples.  From  the  "Glimpses"  we  learn  that 
the  title  of  "Poet  Laureate  of  Hope  End"  was 
awarded  to  her  "in  her  sixth  year,"  and  that,  at 
six,  having  "mounted  Pegasus  at  four,"  she 
thought  herself  "privileged  to  show  off  feats  of 
horsemanship."  Here,  then,  from  the  copy-book, 
are  the  diploma  lines  leading  up  to  that  privilege: — 

Oh!  thou!  whom  Fortune  led  to  stray 
In  all  the  gloom  of  Vice's  way. 
Return  poor  Man!  to  Virtue's  path. 
The  sweetest  sweet,  on  this  round  Earth; 
Thou  slumber  of  the  peaceful  mind. 
Be  loving,  grateful,  good,  and  kind; 
Oh!  beauteous  Virtue,  prythee  smile, 
For  you  the  heaviest  hours  beguile. 

At  eight,  when  she  was  being  dazzled  in  her 
nursery,  at  a  first  acquaintance,  by  Beattie's 
"  Minstrel, "  she  addressed  a  Httle  note  to  her  father 
in  mingled  verse  and  prose,  thus  — 

Sweet  Parent!  dear  to  me  as  kind 
Who  sowed  the  very  bottom  of  my  mind 

19 


And  raised  the  very  inmost  of  my  heart 
To  taste  the  sweets  of  Nature  you  impart! 

I  hope  you  will  let  us  drink  tea  with  you  and  have 
your  fiddle  to-night  — 

Your  dear  child  Elizabeth 

An  answer  to  the  Nurser>\ 

Here  Pegasus  is  harnessed  to  carry  a  petition;  and 
the  verses  cannot  be  called  quite  disinterested; 
but  what  a  strangely  powerful  view  for  a  child  to 
take  of  heredity  and  training! 

Not  till  she  was  nine  do  we  find  her  (in  her 
record)  taking  keen  pleasure  in  weaving  the  rai- 
ment of  verse  for  the  children  of  her  imagination; 
and  only  two  months  before  her  ninth  birthday  the 
copy-book  yields  evidence  of  this  enthusiasm,  — 
in  some  lines  to  Summer  and  some  headed 
"Aurora." 

SUMMER 

All  hail  most  grateful  Summer,  Goddess  hail! 
Throw  back  thy  yellow  hair — throw  back  thy  Veil, 
Which  Spring  has  thrown  so  lightly  o'er  thy  face; 
Goddess  approach  —  let's  see  majestic  grace.  — 
Come  near,  come  tip  with  gold  the  varied  trees. 
Come  wake  the  World,  come  wake  the  gentle  breeze 
To  joy,  to  lively  Mirth,  to  tender  love; 
The  peacock  with  its  tints,  the  am'rous  dove. 

20 


Sometimes  by  light'ning  is  the  thunder  driven, 
To  shake  the  dark  celestial  Vault  of  Heaven. 

AURORA 

But  hark!  Aurora  wakes  the  Cock's  shrill  crow 

And  cooling  zephyrs  gently  blow, 

The  lark  with  quiv'ring  wings  begins  its  flight, 

The  peacock  with  its  varied  feathers  dight, 

The  playful  Fawns  around  them  play 

Whilst  linnets  hail  the  fair  approach  of  day  .  .  . 

The  next  Summer  was   welcomed   beforehand 
with  an  improved  quality  in  the  singing  note. 

TO   SUMMER 

Fair  Summer  come  —  thy  breath  with  perfumes 

sweet 
Scatters  the  rising  odors  at  our  feet, 
Light  zephyrs  frohc  o'er  the  full  drest  ground. 
Save  the  sweet  linnet,  there  is  heard  no  sound. 
The  silent  cattle  graze  on  yonder  hill, 
Or  oftentimes  they  lave  within  the  warbling  rill; 
The  startling  hare,  now  led  by  hope  or  fear, 
Dreams  that  the  speckled  hounds  are  watching 

near, 
And  the  lambkins  with  joy,  now  frolic  and  play 
And  the  fawn  quickly  flies,  in  the  sun's  bright  ray. 
Then  haste  thee,  sweet  summer,  I  long  for  thee. 
For  thy  jocund  pleasures,  to  all  are  free. 

21 


This  is  not  the  occasion  for  weighing  the  value 
of  her  evidence  on  whatever  topic  she  touches; 
but  when  all  the  new  material  is  brought  forward 
it  will  be  clear  that  her  memory  was  much  more 
accurate  than  has  been  supposed,  and  that  she 
does  not  make  a  lax  use  of  definite  terms,  as  has 
been  sometimes  supposed.  Browning's  few  words 
(in  the  1887  notes)  concerning  his  wife's  father  were 
probably  based  on  information  got  from  her.  Al- 
luding to  a  silly  description  of  Mr.  Barrett  as  a 
gentleman  of  "semi-tropical  taste,"  the  poet  re- 
cords that  he  came  from  Jamaica,  and  that  "after 
purchasing  the  estate  in  Herefordshire,  he  gave 
himself  up  assiduously  to  the  usual  duties  and 
occupations  of  a  country  gentleman,  —  farmed 
largely,  was  an  active  magistrate,  became  for  a 
year  High  Sheriff,  .  .  .  and  busied  himself  as  a 
Liberal.  He  had  a  fine  taste  for  landscape  gar- 
dening, planted  considerably,  loved  trees  .  .  .  and 
for  their  sake  discontinued  keeping  deer  in  the 
park."  That  this  Virgilian  preference  of  the  trees 
to  the  deer  probably  asserted  itself  actively  after 
1815  may  be  judged  from  the  presence  of  the  fawns 
in  the  pretty  little  scene  of  the  "Aurora"  lines  and 
again  in  the  second  "Summer,"  for  it  was  the  spa- 
cious domain  of  Hope  End  that  was  the  back- 
ground of  all  its  little  Laureate's  nature  poetry. 
The  landscape  gardening,  farming,  and  so  on,  are 
duly  recorded  by  a  poem  in  the  "copy-book"  series 

22 


addressed  to  Mr.  Barrett.  The  continuous  tran- 
script of  compositions  of  little  Ba  aged  eight  and 
nine  ends  with  two  tender  heroic  quatrains  to  the 
mother  to  whom  she  owed  so  much  and  of  whom  so 
little  has  up  to  now  been  known.  There  was  a  lull 
in  the  child's  poetic  productiveness  after  this  point 
in  the  Spring  of  1815;  but  that  similar  transcripts 
of  subsequent  poems  were  added  on  paper  of 
identical  manufacture  water-marked  "1814"  is 
certain,  although  we  do  not  know  positively  their 
extent  —  the  book  to  which  all  alike  in  all  prob- 
ability belonged,  having  lost  its  cover  and  come  to 
pieces.  Among  these  there  are  an  address  to  her 
father  on  his  birthday,  in  which  she  takes  occasion 
to  congratulate  him  on  extensive  improvements  at 
Hope  End,  and  another  set  of  quatrains  about 
some  magnificent  clock  newly  erected  there.  Here 
follows  the  poem  — 

ON  PAPA'S   BIRTHDAY:     MAY   28th,    1815 

Hail  dear  Papa!   I  hail  thy  natal  day  — 
The  Muses  speak  my  hidden  thoughts  of  love; 
That  love  is  more  than  e'en  the  Muse  can  say  — 
That  love  shall  reign,  until  we  rise  above. 

Sweet  Philomel  enchants  the  listening  grove[s] 
While  Music's  warblings  twitter  in  her  throat  — 
By  murmuring  streams,  mute  silence  roves. 
Echo  scarce  dares  repeat  the  Heavenly  note. 

23 


'Tis  thus  these  hills  declare  their  bounteous  Sire 
As  on  thy  birth,  to  thee,  His  gifts  they  pay, 
Sweet  Philomella  leads  the  tuneful  choir 
And  all  is  joy  to  see  this  happy  day. 

On  thy  fair  birth  the  meadows  smile 
How  brightly  on  this  day  the  prospects  rise! 
May  they  all  painful  care  beguile 
And  humble  Sorrow  as  it  flies! 

The  smile  of  hope  illumes  thy  soul 
Amid  these  Vales,  where  Philomel  doth  sing. 
Where  beauty  reigns  without  control 
Throughout  His  Works,  God's  praises  ring! 

These  polished  walls,  raised  by  your  tasteful  hand, 
These  smiling  shrubs,  these  tangled  walks  and  hills, 
These  rising  rocks,  hewn  by  your  active  band, 
And  drooping  flow'rets  washed  by  murmuring  rills: 

These  waters  by  your  hand  are  taught  to  glide, 
And  wild  ducks  strain  their  soaring  wing  — 
Far  on  the  limpid  wave  they  ride 
While  sweets  the  gathering  zephyrs  fling: 

An  useful  farm  now  owns  thy  generous  sway 
And  oxen  fatten  fast  at  thy  command  — 
A  pleasure  comes  with  each  untasted  day 
Thou  reap'st  the  fruit,  and  nurstles  all  thy  land. 

24 


Long  may'st  thou  live,  as  on  this  happy  day 
Amidst  thy  smiling  little  Family 
And  may  we,  grateful,  e'er  thy  cares  repay 
And  play  about,  the  shilling  gallery!  * 

And  here  is  the  other  piece,  of  the  same  month,  in 
which  the  subject  of  changes  at  Hope  End  is 
further  enlarged  upon. 


ON  THE  CLOCK  PUT  UP  AT  HOPE  END  — 

MAY,  1815 

Hark    what    deep    tone    proceeds    from   yonder 

Tower, 
For  tell-tale  Echo's  voice  betrays  the  sound; 
A  Clock  —  the  Minstrel  of  the  passing  hour. 
While  breathing  Zephyrs  gently  sport  around.  — 

New  is  the  note  amidst  these  varied  shades, 
Sweet  Nature's  Songsters  startle  at  the  tone. 
Cynthia  appears  and  day's  gay  habit  fades. 
But  still  the  Clock  maintains  its  drowsy  moan.  — 

Oh!  may  its  Warning  never  cease  to  bring 
An  useful  lesson  to  our  listening  ear, 
Whilst  hoary  Time  is  swiftly  on  the  wing 
To  teach  the  value  of  each  passing  year.  — 

*  Probably  the  children's  garden,  in  their  own  parlance. 

25 


To  him  who  raised  in  Albion's  rugged  clime, 
Constantinople's  Minarets  and  dome 
May  rich  rewards  borne  on  the  Wings  of  Time 
For  ever  chain  him  to  his  lovely  home!  — 

The  well-known  conversion  of  the  common- 
place modern  residence  at  Hope  End  into  a  house 
somewhat  in  the  taste  of  the  historic  Pavilion  at 
Brighton  is  what  the  local  Poet  Laureate  celebrates 
in  the  quatrains  about  the  clock;  and  the  tw^o 
poems,  showing  careful  study  of  Gray's  poetry, 
especially  the  "Elegy,"  are  pieces  Justificatives,  if 
such  were  needed,  for  the  statement  that  a  little 
later,  "at  ten,"  her  "poetry  was  entirely  formed  by 
the  style  of  written  authors." 

At  eleven,  according  to  the  "Glimpses,"  she 
"wished  to  be  considered  an  authoress;"  and  so 
earnestly  did  she  go  to  work  on  the  necessary  read- 
ing and  self-training,  so  closely  did  she  profit  by 
Mr.  McSwiney's  classical  help,  that  before  she  was 
fourteen  she  was  dedicating  to  her  father  an  epic 
poem  in  four  books  with  an  elaborate  Preface 
printed  by  his  orders  because,  as  she  told  Home, 
Mr.  Barrett  was  bent  on  spoiling  her! 

At  twelve,  says  the  young  lady  of  the  "  Glimpses," 
she  "enjoyed  a  literary  life  with  all  its  pleasures;" 
and  among  those  were  the  joys  of  studying  the 
language.  History,  and  Poetry  of  Greece,  with  a 
special  view  to  authorship,  of  writing  and  revising 

26 


the  four  books  of  "The  Battle  of  Marathon"  and 
the  Preface  thereto,  and,  perhaps,  of  seeing  some 
of  the  work  through  the  press.  But  there  is  noth- 
ing Uke  getting  contemporary  confirmation  from 
the  outside;  and  here  are  some  passages  from 
a  letter  which  she  wrote  to  her  beloved  Uncle  Sam, 
at  the  very  period,  —  in  November,  1818: 

".  .  .  :  I  have  read  'Douglas  on  the  Modern 
Greeks.'  I  think  it  a  most  amusing  book.  ...  I 
have  not  yet  finished  'Bigland  on  the  Character 
and  Circumstances  of  Nations.'  An  admirable 
work  indeed.  ...  I  do  not  admire  'Mme.  de 
Sevigne's  letters,'  though  the  French  is  excellent  — 
the  idioms  beautiful  —  yet  the  sentiment  is  not 
novel,  and  the  rhapsody  of  the  style  is  so  affected, 
so  disgusting,  so  entirely  French,  that  every 
time  I  open  the  book  it  is  rather  as  a  task  than  a 
pleasure  —  the  last  Canto  of  'Childe  Harold' 
(certainly  much  superior  to  the  others)  has  de- 
lighted me  more  than  I  can  express.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  waterfall  is  the  most  exquisite  piece  of 
poetry  that  I  ever  read, — 

The  Hell  of  waters  where  they  howl  and  hiss 
And  boil  in  endless  torture — 

'tis  really  fine,  really  poetry.  All  the  energy,  all 
the  sublimity  of  modern  verse  is  centered  in  these 
lines  —  they  are  models  which  would  not  dishonour 
any  man  to  imitate." 

27 


As  a  child,  a  girl  in  her  teens,  a  young  woman 
from  20  to  30  years  old,  and  finally  as  a  poet  re- 
nowned wherever  her  tongue  is  spoken,  she  was  a 
most  remarkable  correspondent  —  indeed  a  master 
of  the  whole  art  and  craft  of  letter-writing,  and 
that  when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child,  —  as 
The  Bibliophile  Society's  own  documents  could 
readily  demonstrate  to  the  members. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  "  Glimpses"  her  brother 
Edward's  departure  from  the  dear  companionship 
of  his  sister  for  the  Charter  House  school  in  Lon- 
don is  touchingly  dwelt  upon;  and  it  was  probably 
soon  after  that  that  she  wrote  one  of  the  most  de- 
Hghtful  and  masterly  of  her  letters  to  her  father. 
It  may  fitly  adorn  this  address. — 

My  ever  ever  dearest  Puppy, 

Sam's  letter  to  Mama  received  yesterday  was 
certainly  the  bearer  of  a  severe  disappointment  to 
me  as  it  contained  the  tidings  of  your  being  yet 
uncertain  whether  to  allow  me  the  long  antici- 
pated happiness  of  beholding  my  beloved  Bro, 
Granny,  Trip,  yourself  and  sweet  Storm  or  to  with- 
hold the  delightful  boon !  —  When  I  showed  you 
Sam's  letters  in  which  he  declared  an  intention  of 
bringing  down  his  own  carriage  in  order  to  return 
with  me,  you  did  not  object,  and  I  fondly  believed 
that  a  kind  consent  was  implied  by  your  silence! 
I  am  undeceived,  and  am  I  actuated  by  presump- 

28 


tion  when  I  thus  come  forward  to  throw  myself  on 
your  mercy?  I  beUeve  I  am  not,  for  whilst  I 
supplicate  a  smile  I  will  submit  to  a  disappointing 
frown  without  a  murmur,  tho'  not  perhaps  with- 
out a  pang! — So  thoroughly  am  I  convinced  of  my 
ever  dearest  Papa's  affection  for  me,  and  so  per- 
fectly am  I  aware  of  the  superiority  of  his  judg- 
ment that  I  would  not  complain  tho'  the  awful  fiat 
were  to  pass  his  lips,  and  yet  while  my  fate  is  not 
decided  I  may  hope,  and  I  may  solUcit  [sic]  a 
merciful  sentence!  — 

You  may  perhaps  exclaim  with  Apollo,  "Magna 
petis  Ba" — but  you  cannot  add  "Non  est  mortalis 
quod  optas"  —  Consider  my  sweet  Puppy  that  by 
ONE  smile  accompanied  by  that  politest  of  all 
little  words  "Yes,"  you  may  make  me  more  happy, 
more  gratified  than  all  the  pomp  of  Ciceronian 
eloquence  can  express!  —  Oh!  do  not,  pray  do  not, 
refuse!  at  least  do  not  be  angry  with  me  for  pressing 
on  you  a  boon  which  had  been  so  long,  so  joyfully 
anticipated!  — 

Your  grand  objection  is  on  account  of  my  sing- 
ing! —  !  I  promise  you  most  faithfully  and  on  my 
HONOR,  that  if  you  allow  those  features  to  relax 
into  a  becoming  smile  I  will  practise  carefully 
every  day  in  London  my  "do  re  fa"  which  if  I 
do,  Mrs.  Orme  thinks  will  even  improve  my 
voice!  I  also  promise  most  faithfully  that  on  my 
return  home  I  will  turn  all  my  energies  towards 

29 


understanding,  and  excelling  in,  both  vocal  and 
practical  music! 

When  I  promise  my  sweet  Puppy  I  do  not  con- 
sider myself  slightly  bound  but  under  a  sacred 
obHgation  to  fulfil  it!  — 

Thus  have  I  offered  every  thing  in  my  power  in 
order  to  obtain  that  fascinating  solitary  word 
"yes"!  I  have  bid  as  high  as  my  purse  will  ad- 
mit! Oh  let  the  kind,  the  affectionate  Auctioneer 
exclaim  "Going  .  .  going  .  .  gone!" 

My  heart  whispers  that  you  will  not  refuse,  that 
you  will  not  turn  from  me  in  anger!  —  My  dearest, 
dearest  Puppy  grant  my  request!  One  week  in 
London! — Let  me  not  be  ac[c]used  of  presumption 
in  thus  entreating  so  urgently  for  a  petition  to 
which  perhaps  you  annex  no  importance!  —  But 
to  me  my  beloved  Puppy  it  seems  worthy  to  make 
"worlds  CONTEND."  —  Imagine  yourself  my  age 
once  more,  how  your  heart  would  beat  with  joy 
at  the  prospect  of  an  excursion  to  the  metropolis! — 
Have  I  tormented  you?  If  I  have,  oh!  forgive  me, 
and  let  the  kind  verdict  be  "Guilty  but  to  be 
recom[m]ended  to  mercy"  — 

Your  always  affectionate 

and  fondly  attached  Child 
Ba 

"The  Poets'  Enchiridion,"  an  "Address  to  Uve- 
dale  Price  on  his  eightieth  Birthday,"  a  very  young 

30 


but  not  infantine  "Invocation  before  Sleeping," 
and  a  fascinating  early  draft  of  the  renowned  poem 
"Catarina  to  Camoens"  afford  samples  of  poetry 
in  different  kinds.  Work  galore  in  all  these  classes 
the  Council  has  in  store  for  the  members.  There 
are,  moreover,  unpublished  poems  of  the  Sidmouth 
period,  one  of  which  relates  with  terrible  vividness 
a  grotesque  dream  of  1833  and  consists  of  thirty- 
one  quatrains.  Another  of  these,  written  in  1837, 
is  somewhat  alUed  to  the  well-known  "My  Doves," 
but  takes  the  playful  form  of  a  Letter  from  one  of 
those  birds  to  a  certain  Canary,  and  will  keep  its 
readers  entertained  through  some  three  hundred 
lines.  Another  is  a  beautiful  set  of  verses  (twelve 
quatrains)  to  the  Rev.  G.  B.  Hunter,  the  father  of 
Mary  Hunter  ("the  Little  Friend"),  and  points 
the  moral  of  the  fact  that,  although  he  had  con- 
siderable influence  on  the  poet's  mind  when  she 
was  at  Sidmouth,  his  name  does  not  appear  in  her 
printed  books,  —  in  a  specially  bound  copy  of 
which,  the  poem  was  written  before  they  were  sent 
to  him  from  London  in  1844.  Then  there  is  new 
material  connected  with,  and  till  now  disconnected 
from,  the  projected  classic  drama  of  "Psyche  Apo- 
calypte,"  in  an  account  of  which  Home  published 
one  of  the  schemes  of  his  illustrious  coadjutor  in 
that  project.  A  prose  criticism  of  October,  1826, 
written  at  the  request  of  the  veteran  Uvedale  Price 
on  examining  the  proof  sheets  of  a  book  he  was 

31 


about  to  issue,  is  of  considerable  interest,  in  view 
of  the  relative  ages  of  author  and  critic,  and  the 
great  respect  and  regard  the  young  lady,  within  a 
few  months  of  her  majority,  had  for  the  notable 
old  gentleman  then  shortly  to  be  created  a  baronet 
for  his  services  to  the  cause  of  Liberalism.  Then 
there  is  a  considerable  mass  saved  from  a  long  and 
very  ambitious  poem  in  heroic  couplets,  in  some 
respects  better  than  those  of  "An  Essay  on  Mind," 
but  evidently  less  to  the  taste  of  her  father,  whose 
somewhat  capricious  discouragement  of  his  daugh- 
ter on  that  occasion  gave  her  pain  and  grief,  and 
almost  caused  her  to  destroy  a  large  amount  of  her 
manuscript.  Parts  of  this  ultimately  became  "The 
Poets'  Enchiridion;"  and  for  the  consolidation  of 
that  beautiful  poem  we  are  probably  indebted  to 
the  sympathetic  hterary  relations  established  with 
Uvedale  Price  in  the  nick  of  time.  Of  the  remains 
of  the  larger  work  The  Bibliophile  Society  has 
secured  six  or  seven  hundred  lines. 

A  general  look-round  has  also  resulted  in  the 
recovery  of  a  good  deal  both  in  verse  and  in 
prose  contributed  to  periodical  literature  and  well 
worthy  of  preservation,  though  thus  far  ignored 
by  Editors. 

Of  the  manuscripts  one  section  not  yet  mentioned 
is  peculiarly  interesting.  This  consists  of  trans- 
lations from  Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian  authors,  — 
to-wit,  Bion,  Horace,  Claudian,  Dante;  and  though 

32 


some  of  these  belong  to  the  end  of  the  period  cov- 
ered by  the  "  GUmpses,"  none  of  them  are  truly  im- 
mature.    To  Dante,  she  reverted  in  the  latter  part 
of  her  career  —  about  the  time  of  "Casa   Guidi 
Windows,"  and  made  at  least  two  manuscripts  of 
the  First  Canto  of  the  Hell,  —  what  seems  to  be 
the  final  manuscript  being  carefully  revised,  and 
altered  here  and  there.     It  was  probably  the  ex- 
perience of  the  difficulty  of  putting  Dante's  work 
religiously  into  Dante's  metre  {terza  rima)  that 
decided  her  not  to  shackle  her  freedom  with  so 
intricate   a   measure  when    she    composed    that 
glorious  poem    "Casa    Guidi  Windows,"  which, 
though  written  strictly  in  groups  of  triple  alter- 
nate rhymes  is  not  in  terza  rima,  —  pace  the  shade 
of  Swinburne,  who  when  in  the  flesh  described  as 
in  that  metre  the  noblest  of  EngHsh  poems  on  Ital- 
ian liberty,  except  —  if  except  —  some  of  those 
which  make  up  his  own  magnificent    collection 
"Songs  before  Sunrise."     It  is  in  that  collection, 
in  "The  Halt  before  Rome,"  that  he  pays  his 
touching  tribute  to  the 

"  sweet  great  song  that  we  heard 
Poured  upon  Tuscany," 

and  in  noting  an  error  in  her  estimate  of  a  King's 
oath  (confessed  in  her  own  Preface),  gives  us  the 


33 


exquisitely  appropriate  words  with  which  to  end 
an  address  about  her  — 

"Sea-eagle  of  English  feather, 
A  song-bird  beautiful-souled!" 


34 


THE   POETS'    ENCHIRIDION 

ADDRESS   TO    UVEDALE    PRICE 

AN    INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP 

CATARINA   TO    CAMOENS 


THE  POETS'   ENCHIRIDION 

My  song!  mine  ancient  song!  which  was  to  me 

A  pleasant  hope,  is  now  a  memory, 

For  memory  is  the  ashes  of  our  hope. 

My  silent  song!  no  longer  doth  it  cope 

With  my  free  heart,  what  time  veiled  solitude 

Did  sit  before  me  in  a  holy  mood 

With  brow  of  worship,  preaching  silently 

About  the  mighty  things  of  earth  and  sky. 

Lo!  as  St.  Dunstan's  harp,  hung  on  the  wall. 

Ceased  not  ev'n  then  its  labour  musical 

But  went  on  with  the  same  familiar  lay 

Its  master's  touch  had  lessoned  it  to  play  — 

So  is  my  harp  .  .  .  my  soul:  her  theme  is  gone 

Which  was  her  master,  but  its  spell  and  tone 

And  human  sympathies  and  dreams  of  power 

Cleave  to  her  diapason  at  this  hour! 

So  deem  I  a  new  song  may  now  be  taught: 

It  shall  be  as  a  voice  unto  my  thought 

Which  else  were  silent:  as,  against  their  wills. 

The  little  valley  prisons  many  rills 

In  her  green  bondage,  so  my  narrow  song 

Shall  turn  into  one  course  the  gushings  strong 

37 


Of  mind  and  feeling,  that  they  aye  may  flow, 
(Brightening  the  pebbles  which  therein  I  throw) 
To  mirror  Heaven  above  and  freshen  earth  below! 

Oh  ye!  who  in  your  lonely  wanderings 
Tune  up  your  spirit's  harp  with  golden  strings 
Because  the  meadows  are  alive  with  flowers, 
At  gossip  with  the  bees  in  summer  hours; 
Because  the  spring  layeth  her  votive  wreath 
Upon  the  mountains  what  time  underneath 
The  tired  Ocean  turneth  unto  sleep 
Breathing  and  muttering  midst  his  slumbers  deep! 
Lay  not  your  harp  where  rust  will  fret  its  strings, 
Dream  not  your  pleasant  dreams  of  passing  things. 
Of  the  green  leaves  which  drop  off  one  by  one  — • 
The  honeyed  bees  which  perish  with  the  sun  — 
The  summer  breath  which  bloweth  and  is  done: 
The  colored  flowers  which  have  no  color  long  — 
The  quaint  bird  which  is  silenced  in  his  song  — 
The    cloudless    welkin    which    the    clouds    must 

cover  — 
And  the  dumb  ocean  where  the  winds  sweep  over! 

Have  I  not  walked  abroad  in  our  fair  world 
When  every  little  leaf  was  fresh  unfurled 
To  fan  the  blossoms?     Have  mine  eyes  not  seen, 
(As  we  may  see  thro'  tears)  the  broad  sunsheen 
Turning  like  Midas  all  it  touched  to  gold: 
Have  I  not  viewed  the  Ocean's  scroll  unrolled 

38 


Whereon  is  written  Time,  —  and  the  woods  round 

Shewing  their  leafy  glories  with  a  sound? 

Yeal     I    have   seen   these   things!  —  but   aye    I 

thought 
That  all  this  pride  was  out  of  ruin  wrought! 
Behold!  the  blossoms  which  today  are  ours 
Spring  from  the  dust  of  last  year's  buried  flowers! 
The  grass  which  seems  to  cloak  our  hills  in  Mirth 
Is  but  the  green  shroud  of  an  ancient  earth 
Once  very  green,  now  dead:  —  the  royal  sun 
Shining  so  blythe  on  us  hath  also  shone 
On  some  who  unto  darkness  bent  their  way!  — 
Ay  me!  Ay  me!  thus  when  I  fain  would  stay 
Within  this  house  of  Beauty,  her  lamip  lit 
Shews  me  how  Change  upon  her  hearth  doth  sit 
An  unforbidden  guest.    Thus  when  I  stand 
I'  the  sorrow  of  man's  strength,  on  this  fair  land, 
My  lips  ask  'What  is  life'  with  faltering  breath 
And  all  things  sensible  do  answer  —  Death! 
Therefore  I  turn  from  Nature's  pleasant  dit 
Unto  the  ear  that  listeth  oft  to  it 
For  whose  use  it  was  fashioned  —  straight  I  go 
From  the  majestical  and  air-hung  show 
Of  woods  and  booming  waters,  mountain,  dale. 
The  which  are  God's  creations,  tho'  made  frail. 
Unto  the  breath  of  God,  the  deathless  soul. 
Who  master  albeit  prisoner  of  the  whole 
Vieweth  the  grossness  of  the  things  that  be 
And  by  the  touch  of  cunningest  alchemy 

39 


Maketh  their  uses  spiritual  —  I  find 
Much  here  for  wonder,  and  I  fain  would  bind 
This  theme  immortal  to  my  mortal  song. 
This  frontlet  to  my  brows,  and  trace  the  strong 
Desire  of  some  strong  soul  to  cast  away 
Th'  ^Egyptian  bonds,  the  manacles  of  clay. 
And  follow  o'er  the  deep  truth's  pillared  flame, 
The  which  desire,  when  passionate,  men  name 
By  the  proud  name  of  Genius,  and  I  would 
Refer  it  to  discernment  of  the  good  — 
The  good  or  beautiful  —  by  ancient  rule, 
Beauty  is  good  and  good  is  beautiful. 


40 


TO   UVEDALE   PRICE,   ESQ^ 

On  his  birthday,  March  26,  1827 

My  words  are  on  my  lips  uncalled:  I  turn 
Towards  thee,  unpermitted  —  nor  inurn 
Within  the  lonely  darkness  of  mine  heart, 
Such  feelings  as  can  never  thence  depart, 
And  do  inherit  sound.     It  is  not  fit, 
That  /,  who  have  rejoiced  o'er  pages  writ 
By  thy  soul's  lamp,  should  joy  not  it  was  lit: 
7,  who  with  pilgrim  feet  did  erewhile  press 
Thy  distant  paths  of  leafy  secretness,  — 
Where  Nature  welcomes  man  in  Nature's  gear,  — 
Freed  from  the  tyrant's  chain,  and  bondslave's 

fear  — 
Freed  by  thy  generous  hand,  from  which  was  ta'en 
The  zone  of  painting,  to  replace  the  chain! 
Thence  grateful,  to  thy  will  her  actions  timing, 
She  charms  thine  hills,  and  green-grass  vales,  — 

subliming 
Thy  solemn  forests'  wild  divinities  — 
Yews,  the  black  mourners  for  gone  centuries. 
Veiling  the  place  in  shadow  —  horrent  oaks. 
Braving  the  Harpy  Winds  and  thunderstrokes 
And  blue  canicular  sulphur  —  Larches  fierce. 
Writhing  and  grappling  with  the  Earth  to  pierce 

41 


Her  royal  sides  by  roots  thrust  out  aslant!  — 

And  keeping  aye  with  Heaven  proud  covenant!  — 

Whereby  old  Solitude,  engendered  dumb, 

Speaks  to  the  soul  by  gesture:  and  doth  come, 

She,  of  the  veiled  brow,  who  wont  to  stay 

r  the  Poet's  soul  —  as  his  Egeria  — 

Th'  Ideal,  won  by  love  or  forced  by  spell 

To  walk  such  place  in  glory  visible!  — 

Yea!  and  thy  spell  is  vocal  to  mine  ear  — * 

And  Homer  leaves  his  mouldering  sepulchre 

For  a  new  Nestor!     Classic  Poetry, 

Who  hath  been  forced  by  cruel  Time  to  be 

A  Philomela,  marred  of  her  sweet  speech  — 

Who  hath  been  therewithal  enforced  to  teach. 

With  fmger  gestes,  and  cunning  broideries 

And  gorgeous  painted  forms,  only  our  eyes. 

And  not,  as  erst,  our  hearing,  with  her  strain  — 

Doth  look  up  at  thy  voice,  and  speak  again! 

Yea!  thus  the  shadow  of  thy  time,  thine  age, 

Like  to  the  statue's  shade  i'  the  antique  page  f 

Seems  only  shed  upon  the  earth  to  show 

The  beamy  treasure  which  was  hid  below! 

For  me  —  for  me  —  shall  Memory's  pleasant  flood 
Keep  green  within  my  heart  a  gratitude! 
Because  when,  erewhile,  by  mine  Harp  I  sat, 
And  faintly  gave  to  sound  what  thought  begat  — 

*  Mr.   Price's   Work  on   Accent.      [The   author  was  not 
created  a  Baronet  till  1828.]  t  Gesta  Romanorum 

42 


When  uncommunicable  fears,  that  sting 

And  hide  beneath  their  wings  the  festering,  — 

Darkened  about  my  spirit  —  the  deep  fear 

Lest   none   should   hear   the   tone  ...  or   some 

SHOULD  hear  — 
When  the  tone  faltering  grew,  —  the  lamp  un- 

bright,  — 
Thou  did'st  not  still  the  harp,  or  quench  the  light; 
But,  patient  of  my  lay,  —  its  harshness  borne,  — 
Did'st    spare    the    minstrel's    fault,  —  the    critic 

scorn !  — 
And  therefore  it  is  just,  —  and  so  shall  be,  — 
That  all  I  name  mine  own,  my  minstrelsy, 
Convey  this  all  I  have  to  give  .  .  .  a  prayer!  — 
May  many  gracious  years  their  freshness  share 
With  thee,  —  and  singing  Hope,  uncheated,  press 
To  watch  thy  golden  fruit  of  Happiness ! 

Farewell !  tho'  words  were  on  my  lips,  my  breath 
Had  let  them  perish  in  a  silent  death, 
And  hid  their  grave  from  echo :  but  I  thought 
That  howsoever  they  were  rudely  wrought, 
Their  "truth  might  be  their  dower":    and  thou 

might'st  hear 
In  kindness  what  was  spoken  in  a  fear!  — 
For  that,  the  simple  words,  I,  thus,  let  fall. 
Are  likest  harpstrings  swept  in  echoing  Hall,  — 
Only  their  trembling  makes  them  musical!  — 

£.  B.  D. 

43 


BEFORE   SLEEPING 

An  Invocation 

Grateful  Sleep,  returning  spring 
And  o'er  my  head  expand  thy  wing! 
Angels  near  my  couch  attend 
And  Guardian  Seraphim  defend! 
Ye  dreams  so  grateful  to  my  soul 
Who  bid  again  the  ocean  roll, 
Who  bid  again  those  waters  rise 
Renewing  pleasure  as  she  flies, 
Oh  now  around  my  lonely  bed 
Your  wings  of  various  colors  spread; 
And  thou,  soft  Cynthia,  pensive  Moon, 
Now  shining  on  thy  silver  throne, 
Reminding  wretched  sinners  here 
Of  virtue  and  some  brighter  sphere, 
Now  bend  from  yonder  azure  deep 
And  gild  my  pillow  as  I  sleep; 
And  ye,  oh  Muses,  heavenly  powers. 
Dear  solace  of  my  happy  hours. 
Even  as  I  sleep  my  soul  beguile 
And  cheer  my  slumbers  with  a  smile. 
Ev'n  now,  sweet  Minstrels,  let  me  hear 
Those  sounds  which  charmed  ev'n  Pluto's  ear 

45 


"With  all  the  soul  of  harmony" 
When  Orpheus  sought  Eurydice;  — 
And  don't  forget  my  curls  to  keep 
In  order  due  when  I'm  asleep; 
When  morning  comes  then  let  me  wake 
And  from  my  eyelids  slumber  shake; 
This,  great  Apollo's  daughters,  do  — 
And  I  will  ever  honour  you ! 


46 


CATARINA  TO   CAMOENS 
An  Early  Draft 

I 

My  cheek  hath  paled  its  rose  away, 

My  lips  can  smile  no  more, 
And  wert  thou  near  me,  would'st  thou  say, 

"I  love  thee"  as  before? 
When  dull  the  eyes  once  dreamed  to  be 
"The  sweetest  eyes  thou  e'er  didst  see." 

II 

What  time  I  heard  that  song  of  thine 

Amid  my  courtly  days  — 
Though  others  praised  their  starlike  shine, 

I  joyed  not  at  the  praise. 
I  only  joyed  that  they  should  be 
"The  sweetest  eyes  thou  e'er  didst  see." 

Ill 

And  well  I  know,  wert  thou  beside 

Thy  Cat'rine's  dying  bed, 
Though  quenched  all  their  light  and  pride, 

Such  words  would  still  be  said  — 
Her  loving  eyes  still  seeme  to  thee 
The  sweetest  ones  thou  e'er  didst  see. 

47 


IV 

When  wilt  thou  come?    When  I  am  gone 
Where  all  unpassioned  are  — 

Where  e'en  thy  voice  of  tender  tone 
Will  cause  no  pulse  to  stir  — 

When  shroud  and  stone  will  hide  with  me 

The  sweetest  eyes  thou  e'er  didst  see. 

V 

And  wilt  thou  ever,  ever  keep 

That  band  which  bound  mine  hair?  * 

Clasp  it,  dear  love,  but  do  not  weep 
Too  long  and  wildly  there; 

For  still  from  Heav'n  shall  look  on  thee 

The  sweetest  eyes  thou  e'er  didst  see. 

VI 

But  now  they  are  not  yet  in  Heav'n, 

And  fill  with  sudden  tears, 
Because  thy  thoughts  may  not  be  given 

To  them  in  after  years  — 
Then  other  eyes  may  seem  to  thee 
The  sweetest  ones  thou  e'er  didst  see. 

VII 

Ah  me!  can  death  so  soon  begin 
This  heart  to  change  and  chill, 

*  Which  she  gave  to  him  at  their  parting. 
48 


That  /  should  weep  because  I  ween 

Thou  mayst  be  happy  still? — 
Heaven  bless  whatever  eyes  may  be 
The  sweetest  eyes  thou  e'er  shalt  see! 


49 


Mr.  Forman's  deep  interest  in,  and  admiration 
for,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  is  not  of  recent 
origin,  as  will  be  seen  by  the  following  hitherto 
unpublished  lines  which  he  has  very  kindly  allowed 
us  to  print  as  a  fitting  conclusion  to  this  little  book. 
They  are  addressed  — 

To  Laura  Buxton  Forman,  with  a  Reprint  of 
THE  1st  Edition  of  "Aurora  Leigh"  Edited 
for  the  "Temple  Classics"  and  Received 
FROM  the  Publisher  in  Time  for  her  Birthday. 


I 

When  first  we  read  "Aurora  Leigh" 
We  sat  on  Richmond  Green  to  do  it. 

I  looked  at  you  and  you  at  me 
When  both  should  have  been  looking  through  it. 

II 

"November  8th  of '66"  — 

We  read  it  from  the  5th  edition : 
The  book  lies  there,  the  date  to  fix, 

And  still  in  excellent  condition. 

51 


Ill 

It  was  because  superb  I'd  found  it 
I  came  to  share  with  you  my  treasure; 

And  that  quaint  Scot  McCulloch  bound  it 
That  you  might  look  on  it  with  pleasure. 

IV 

But  'twas  in  later  calmer  years 
We  grew  to  know  Aurora  better 

For  love  will  find  in  courtship's  fears 
A  thousand  things  the  mind  to  fetter. 

V 

No  more  we  sit  on  Richmond  Green 
Even  in  the  sunniest  summer  weather. 

No  more  through  gracious  meads  of  Sheen 
We  loiter  hand  in  hand  together. 

VI 

But  while  we  face  the  downward  slope, 

Aurora  Leigh  in  youth  eternal 
Lifts  her  fair  hand  in  sign  of  hope 

To  those  whose  lives  are  quick  and  vernal. 

VII 

Aurora  Leigh  and  Marian  Erie 

Speak  truth  to  all  who  care  to  know  it, 

And  bare  for  unborn  man  and  girl 
The  soul  of  our  great  woman-poet. 

52 


VIII 

Aurora's  is  her  mind,  her  art. 

Her  scorn  of  all  that's  base  and  sordid. 

In  Marian's  peerless  mother-heart 
The  perfect  woman  stands  recorded. 

IX 

They  two  shall  testify  of  her 

While  still  our  English  speech  is  spoken, 
And  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh 

The  worship  of  the  world  betoken. 

X 

The  high-tide  mark  of  her  clear  fame 
We  two  shall  not  be  here  to  witness; 

But  in  some  nook  I  may  not  name, 
Fulfilhng  "the  Eternal  Fitness." 

XI 

We  shall  be  wrapped  in  that  vast  night 
Where  dawns  no  sorrow-day  or  mirth-day.  - 

So  now  I've  shaped  the  text  aright; 
And  you've  the  book  upon  your  birthday. 

H.  B.  F. 

29  January,  1899. 


53 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

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